


Some of Our Courting Hours

by inwhatfurnace



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Flirting, Injury, M/M, Party Planner Ferdinand von Aegir, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 15:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20677334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inwhatfurnace/pseuds/inwhatfurnace
Summary: Running a circus, Ferdinand imagines, must be quite like planning a ball. He has assistants, of course, and those assistants have assistants, but there is too much to worry about: the invitations, the food, the security, the decorations, the entertainment, the silverware, Edelgard’s outfit, his own outfit, the fact that Hubert will not stop touching him --





	Some of Our Courting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no :( one of us is injured :( is one of my favorite things and FE makes it too easy… this is just a bunch of cliché scenes of Ferdinand/Hubert interaction with a vague excuse for a plot, please forgive me.
> 
> It doesn’t have a whole lot of bearing on this fic, but this is a kinda-sorta AU where both Edelgard and Byleth’s and Edelgard and Lysithea’s paired endings happened.
> 
> Title from John Potter’s _The Virtuous Villagers_, because I had no idea what to call this: “vows of constancy and adoration engage some of our courting hours.”

`GARREG MACH MONASTERY: YEAR 1185`

“Oh, my poor Ferdie,” Dorothea coos as she and Petra enter the infirmary. “How are you feeling?”

“I have been better,” he admits, wincing as he tries to sit up straight in the bed. Dorothea tut-tuts at the sight of his chest and stomach, completely covered in bandages. “But Professor Manuela says I will be fighting fit in a few days.”

“You should be wearing your injuries with pride, Ferdinand,” Petra says. “Your actions were most brave.”

“I do not count an axe knocking me off my horse among my proudest moments,” he replies, and Dorothea smiles.

“All’s well that ends well and all that, right? We just wanted to check in on you.”

“Thank you,” he replies, feeling a swell of affection for both of them. He’s only been in the infirmary for a day, but finds himself remarkably touched each time one of his former classmates stops by to see him. Their professor had come by to check in on him first, which had opened the floodgate - he’s had a visitor just about every hour.

“There is no need to be thanking us,” Petra says, as she walks to the head of bed. Her eyes narrow. “Is your hair not bothering you?”

Dorothea lights up. “Would you let us put your hair up, Ferdie? You’ll look so cute!” 

“We will take great care,” Petra assures him solemnly.

Manuela had indeed grumbled about the length of his hair as she wrapped the bandages, though he’d tried his best to keep it all out of her way.

“I suppose,” he replies, hesitant, and that’s all the permission the two of them need.

Petra and Dorothea work quickly: Petra takes the ties and pins out of her own hair, despite Ferdinand’s protests, and within ten minutes they’ve finished, pulling his hair back into one simple braid.

“It is nice,” he admits as the two of them appraise him, “to have my hair out of my face.”

“I am impressed by our work,” Petra says, and Dorothea nods in agreement. “Are you wanting anything from the dining hall? Dorothea and I are headed there next.”

“I ate not too long ago, but thank you.”

Petra pats his shoulder and smiles. “We will return to see you soon.” 

As they head out, Dorothea lingers in the doorway, then turns back to him.

“Thanks, Ferdie. This was fun.”

He nods, and she waves before heading out into the hallway. He can hear the murmur of conversation through the open door. Dorothea’s laugh makes its way into the infirmary, but whatever is happening is too far down the hall for Ferdinand to make out.

There’s a knock, and he looks up to see Hubert, hand still lifted to the doorframe.

“Hello,” he says blankly, as Hubert drags a chair across the room to his bedside. He sits, and Ferdinand can think of nothing to do but watch him.

“You’re a reckless fool who charges into fights he cannot win,” Hubert says flatly. He sighs. “And your hair suits you.”

Ferdinand flounders, unsure how to respond to the one-two punch of insult-compliment. “Th-Thank you?” He scrambles for something to talk about, looking around the room in desperate hope that something will lend itself to conversation. He’s saved by Lysithea’s gift, a towering plate of cakes and cookies liberated from the kitchens. He holds it out to Hubert, doing his best to balance it. “Lysithea brought these up earlier. They came with a fifteen-minute lecture on the healing power of sugar.”

Seconds pass, but Hubert simply stares at the dish, completely frozen, and Ferdinand’s stomach sinks. Hubert must have a terribly traumatic childhood memory associated with pastries, or Edelgard has forbidden him to partake in them, or --

“Excuse me,” Hubert mutters, standing up and walking out of the room. Ferdinand begins to mentally berate the both of them immediately: Hubert is right, he is a fool; it was foolish of him to think Hubert wanted to spend time with him, and even worse of Hubert for making him think so --

A rattling sound snaps him out of his thoughts, and Ferdinand looks up to find Hubert has returned, carrying a tea tray fully set for two.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be sleeping, or feeling well enough.” Hubert, pink-faced, refuses to look up. “So I left it outside.”

A flustered Hubert is more than enough to get Ferdinand flushing in sympathy. “No, I would love to,” he replies, and is rewarded with an amused quirk of Hubert’s mouth.

Despite the ache in his ribs, the cake is good, the tea is very good, and Hubert’s company is even better.

Hubert returns the following afternoon, a small pile of books in his arms. Manuela lets him in with a nod, then returns to reorganizing her supply cabinet, which Ferdinand has listened to her threaten to do the entire time he’s been here. Hubert hands him a book and leaves the rest on the bedside table. 

_A Treatise on the Tacticks and Weaponry of Albinea_, the title page reads.

“I won’t pretend reading about it is the same as having a physical example,” Hubert says. “But I thought these might interest you.”

“Thank you,” he replies, voice barely above a whisper.

Hubert leaves soon after, citing a meeting with Edelgard. The other books are also on the topic of arms and weapons from outside of Fódlan, including one that lacks Seteth’s meticulous cataloguing marks on the inside cover. Ferdinand tries not to feel too giddy at the thought of Hubert lending him a book from his own personal collection.

“I never would have guessed, but that’s a nice boy you have there,” Manuela says breezily. She looks over her shoulder and winks, and Ferdinand begins to splutter. “And if he’s not, I suggest snatching him up.”

Unfortunately, fighting in a continent-wide war of unification that strips both the church and nobility of their power turns out not be the best time to do plenty of things, let alone try to court someone.

* * *

`ENBARR: YEAR 1190`

It has been a running joke in the emperor’s cabinet for years now: when in doubt, suggest a ball. Ferdinand has brought it up at least once a year since he became Prime Minister, convinced it would be a fine way to lift the spirits of the Empire at large, and the other ministers have joined in, proposing it as a way to cure just every one of Adrestia’s ills. Trade routes being attacked by bandits? Grumbling about taxes? The budget can’t be agreed upon? A ball would be just the thing, surely.

Edelgard had remained steadfast: a wide-scale celebration too soon would seem indulgent and affected at best, callous and spiteful at worst.

And now, finally:

“As you all know, it has been almost ten years since my ascension to the throne,” Edelgard remarks from her very seat of power itself. “Hubert, do you have any suggestions?”

“A ball, Your Majesty?” He drawls, standing in usual spot beside her, and laughter fills the audience hall.

Edelgard tilts her head in consideration. “That sounds like just the thing. May I assume our Prime Minister will head the committee?”

Ferdinand is standing amongst the crowd of ministers, and he feels a rush of anticipation when the emperor catches his eye and smiles. He makes his way to the front and bows deep at the waist. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” The weight of both Edelgard’s and Hubert’s amused gazes is enough to bring a flush to his face. “It would be my honor.” 

Someone slaps Ferdinand on the back, another elbows him. He remembers little else about the meeting, his mind whirling at the responsibility given him. Everything will have to be perfect.

Suddenly the hall is empty, except for Ferdinand and Hubert.

“I am so relieved,” he says, waiting for Hubert to finish organizing all of the paperwork that had been submitted. “It has been far too long since the Empire has celebrated anything. I was worried we would have to wait for a jubilee.”

Hubert snorts and hands half of the stack of paper to Ferdinand. They’ll go through it later in the week.

* * *

“Prime Minister, sir, sorry to interrupt.”

He looks up from his desk to see an anxious Fleche in his office doorway, and waves her in. “Is everything alright?”

“I think so? But Her Majesty sent me to let you know that Minister Vestra is in the infirmary.”

He follows Fleche through the halls of the palace in a daze, his blood roaring in his ears. Edelgard is waiting just outside the door to the infirmary.

“Ferdinand,” she says gently. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Is he conscious?” He struggles to get the question out, feeling a little faint himself.

Edelgard’s expression softens. “He is. And he’d like your company, I think.”

The good news is enough to clear the fog in Ferdinand’s brain. “Give me five minutes,” he says, holding out a hand when both Fleche’s and Edelgard’s eyebrows raise. “I will be right back.”

He makes it to and back from the kitchens in record time. When Edelgard sees the coffee pot and cups balanced carefully on the tray he’s carrying, her smile convinces him that everything will be just fine. 

“Ferdinand von Aegir,” she says fondly, and he can feel himself blushing. “What would we do without you?”

* * *

“I am finally returning the favor,” he announces as he walks into the infirmary.

Hubert is sitting upright in one of the beds, flipping through a report. The upper half of one of his left arm is tightly bandaged. “A von Aegir never forgets, I see,” he says, eyeing the tray in Ferdinand’s hands. “Here to nurse me back to health?”

“I am here to ply you with caffeine in hopes that you will get the rest you need,” Ferdinand replies, and feels a rush of relief when Hubert rolls his eyes: he’s feeling well enough to pretend to be annoyed.

“Caffeine and rest don’t quite go hand in hand,” Hubert shoots back as Ferdinand sets the tray down on a nearby side table. 

“We both know it doesn’t affect you anymore. And give me those papers.” Ferdinand holds out his hand and gets another eye roll in response. It takes some wiggling of his fingers, but Hubert eventually relinquishes the documents with what, if Ferdinand was feeling bold, looks like a pout. He gets a cup of coffee in exchange, though, which seems to placate him.

Ferdinand takes a seat in a chair that’s already been brought over to Hubert’s bedside -- by Edelgard, certainly.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Hubert still guards his secrets viciously, but Ferdinand has learned that giving him the opportunity to opt out of the conversation is usually enough to get him to open up.

“It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission. I was careless.” Hubert looks down at his drink. “A poisoned knife caught me before I was able to escape. It’s nothing serious.”

It still feels bizarre to Ferdinand, to believe that a war had been won, only to discover that it still carried on in the dark corners of their world. But it is his job to keep the parts of the Empire that operate in the daylight running as smoothly and fairly as he can.

Their conversation wanders after that. Ferdinand has trouble concentrating, still recovering from the rush of adrenaline, and Hubert is obviously tired.

“I’ll leave you to your rest.” Ferdinand reaches to gather up their cups, and stares at his trembling hand. He sighs and sits back down. Hubert has been watching him the entire time, mouth an amused twist.

“Can I help you?”

“This is not the best time to ask, and it is far too early, but,” Ferdinand clears his throat and resists the urge to wring his hands, “I was wondering if you would be my date. For the ball.” 

The silence that follows is painful. He seems to have broken Hubert -- the man gawks at him, mouth opening and then closing again. 

“Your date?” He echoes, incredulous.

Humiliation prickles through Ferdinand like a climbing vine. He’s a fool -- to Ailell with all of it -- and every inch of him screams to retreat. He stands back up abruptly and begins to load the cups back onto the tray. “If you would rather not, I understand, of course, I will just be --”

He’s reaching for a saucer when Hubert’s hand touches his wrist and gently presses down.

“Ferdinand. Stay.” It’s the softest he’s ever heard Hubert’s voice, he’s sure of it.

He sits back down again, gracelessly. “I do not --” his voice wavers. “I do not mean it as a one-time engagement, either.”

Hubert’s gaze is sharp. “Prime Minister,” --is he hiding a smile?-- “do you mean to court me?” 

Ferdinand sits up straight and puffs his chest out just a little - noble title or no, he will do this right. “I do,” he replies.

Hubert is released the next day, after getting clearance from both the head nurse and the emperor herself.

* * *

`ENBARR: YEAR 1191`

Running a circus, Ferdinand imagines, must be quite like planning a ball. He has assistants, of course, and those assistants have assistants, but there is too much to worry about: the invitations, the food, the security, the decorations, the entertainment, the silverware, Edelgard’s outfit, his own outfit, the fact that Hubert will not stop touching him --

He may have started it, admittedly: 

“There will be a main celebration inside the palace,” Ferdinand had explained, handing Hubert the current guest list. “But there will be festivities throughout Enbarr as well.”

Hubert tapped one finger against Ferdinand’s desk. “Security will have to be tight.”

“No question,” he agreed, “and based on Dorothea’s latest letter, I think I have convinced her to come over from Brigid. I am hoping she will sing a little before joining the party, but she and Petra will need a guard of their own.”

Somewhere outside of Ferdinand’s office window, a bell tolled the hour. He jolted, jumping to his feet.

“Damn it, I have to meet with the florist,” he grumbled, fishing about his desk for the right list, “I am sorry to cut this short.”

“That’s fine,” Hubert replied, following him to the door.

Ferdinand let out an “oh,” as if he’d forgotten something, but when he turned back to Hubert, he simply held out his hand. He grinned, delighted, when Hubert took it, despite the wary expression on his face.

He lifted Hubert’s hand up, and suddenly found it quite difficult to speak above a whisper. “May I?” 

“You may,” Hubert replied, strangled.

It had been little more than the press of his mouth to the back of Hubert’s gloved hand, but it seems he has opened some great dam of affection: whenever they’re together there’s a hand on the small of his back, or fingers brushing his hair away from his face. Ferdinand gives as good as he gets, leaning into Hubert far more than necessary, coming up with absurd excuses to hold his hand.

* * *

Among his many weekly appointments is his one with Lysithea, which is almost always the most productive. Her knowledge of the former Alliance’s workings has proved invaluable in helping steer the Adrestian Empire, and she has plenty of insight to give in all matters of state.

“If I may distract you,” Ferdinand says after another of their meetings, “I am just about to head down the kitchens to sample some of the dessert options.”

“An Imperial cake tasting.” Both Lysithea’s voice and expression are dreamy as she follows him out of his office. “I can’t believe it.”

“You are our foremost expert.” Ferdinand holds the door open for her. “I will defer to you in all matters of sugar.”

* * *

Petra and Dorothea arrive at the Imperial stables by wyvern two days before the ball. Ferdinand had insisted to Edelgard, Hubert, and their professor that he be the one to greet them, despite the pile of paperwork currently sitting on his desk.

“My long-lost Ferdie!” Dorothea pulls him into a hug. “How are you?”

Petra greets him with a smile and a firm handshake. “It is good to see you, Ferdinand.”

“Brigid suits the both of you well,” he says, and Dorothea laughs. Behind him, Petra’s wyvern snorts, wanting attention. Ferdinand gives her snout a pet. “Did you fly the whole way here?”

“It is not far at all.” Petra shrugs. “Much easier than taking the ferry.”

“I cannot thank you both enough for coming. Her Majesty is stuck in meetings all day, but she’d like to have dinner with you two tonight.”

As they make their way to the palace, Ferdinand provides updates on everyone who’s still in the capital: Edelgard, Lysithea, Hubert, Byleth, himself. The rest of their former classmates begin to arrive over the next two days: Bernadetta brings an embroidered Black Eagles sigil that Edelgard rushes to the dressmaker immediately, and Caspar and Linhardt arrive at the city gates both equally exhausted.

* * *

The ball itself goes surprisingly smoothly. Everything is delivered on time, deadlines are made, and the budget has been mostly adhered to. Enbarr looks like something out of a fairy tale, lanterns and banners and garlands strung across every street. His own tailor had done a fine job with his new jacket and trousers, cut from a deep navy blue cloth.

The main hall of the palace is bustling with anticipation, full of guests drinking and picking at finger food as they wait for the orchestra to settle in. Edelgard is scheduled to make a speech later in the night, as is Ferdinand himself, but there will be plenty of celebrating beforehand.

He finds Lysithea at the top of the stairs that lead down into the main hall, her dress made of a beautiful shimmering fabric. She laughs when he takes her hand and bows before her. 

“You can be as charming as you want, Ferdinand, but that cake better be extraordinary.”

“On my honor,” he swears. He watches Lysithea’s eyes flicker to somewhere behind him, and turns to find Hubert, in a black and silver attire he’s never seen before.

“May I interrupt?”

She waves them off. “Go on. Have fun.”

“My, someone’s getting the rumor mill started early this evening,” Linhardt observes as he passes them on the stairs, a glass of wine in each hand.

“Good to see you too, Linhardt,” Ferdinand replies, and Linhardt raises one glass in acknowledgement. Ferdinand hooks his arm through Hubert’s for good measure, and Hubert’s low laugh ends just as the orchestra starts up, Dorothea’s voice effortlessly filling the room. Ferdinand follows it with a sigh of recognition -- it’s an old Adrestian folk song about lovers separated by war: one fighting in the cold north, whose journey back is described in the verses, and the other waiting in the capital, whose anxious lament makes up the chorus.

Edelgard is a vision on the dance floor, the deep red of her gown reminiscent of the cape she wore into battle. She’s led effortlessly by their professor, who somehow must have had time to sneak in dance lessons. Other couples begin to join them, turning the hall into a kaleidoscope of color and cloth.

He hums along, swaying in time to the music, the link of his and Hubert’s arms the only thing keeping him in place as they reach the bottom of the stairs. 

“Well, Prime Minister?” Hubert leans in close to be heard over the music. “Am I not your date?”

Ferdinand frowns and nods, brow furrowing. Hubert tilts his head towards the dancers, and understanding lights up in Ferdinand’s eyes.

“Forgive me,” he says, bright and pleased, and unhooks himself from Hubert only to hold one hand out hopefully. “May I have the honor of a dance, Minister Vestra?”

“Ridiculous,” Hubert mutters, but lets Ferdinand sweep him off his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> hubie: ferdinand I told you we were on the ten-year pining plan
> 
> ferdie: whoops
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/amyrran)!


End file.
